The Honeymoon
by LisaLovesCurry
Summary: Carlisle and Esme's wedding night-there are so many versions of this particular episode in Cullen history that I love that I thought I'd try my own...
1. Chapter 1

Hi, this is Lisa, and here's a special treat for Friday night! I'm not gonna lie—I LOVE lemons if they're well done, and I think this one's all right, but please read on and see, then tell me what you think. (I'm working on a version from Carlisle's POV too, if there is interest in that). Thanks and see you later!

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns "Twilight"—the following is purely for entertainment purposes (and even though I wrote it, I have to say that I was entertained ).

**The Honeymoon**

Esme's POV

During lulls in their conversation on the drive up to the house where they'd be honeymooning, Esme sat beside Carlisle and thought about what was going to come next. She was…nervous, but she had an odd feeling that Carlisle was as uneasy as she was. Kissing him the night before had felt fantastic, but honestly, the intensity of her own reaction had startled her—she'd loved Carlisle for years, but apparently she'd underestimated the extent of her physical passion for him. After all, as a human, she'd never enjoyed her husband's touch—she'd scarcely been able to tolerate it. Of course Carlisle was utterly different from Charles; but Esme hadn't guessed that her own feelings for the physical aspect of marriage could be so completely changed after just a few months as an immortal.

Mercifully, she could only recall moments, intense and terrifying thought they were, of the years of abuse she'd suffered at her first husband's hands. Looking back, Esme realized that as bad as it was to have Charles nearby, some of her worst memories involved waiting for him to come home, wondering what new indignities she'd suffer that night and what new bruises she'd be hiding the next day—

Esme swallowed hard, then straightened up before laying her head to rest against Carlisle's shoulder. His arm was around her, and he tightened his grip without speaking. Carlisle had never pushed her to talk about Charles, though she'd had a great deal to say about him when she'd first begun to look back on her life as a human, but he'd said very little during these conversations. Rather than giving her advice or making excuses for him as people had done during her life as a human, Carlisle had simply listened while all the fear, all the venom had come pouring out of her, and the relief she'd felt when she'd finished talking and he'd simply embraced her had been indescribable.

She'd been just as grateful that he'd never threatened to hurt Charles. Esme was careful to avoid thinking of him when Edward was around because she knew, without having his power, that Edward wanted nothing more than to end the life of Charles Evanson, to make sure that the man who had harmed the woman he now thought of as his mother breathed his last. Esme was eager for his life to end, if only so he couldn't hurt anyone else; she could admit that, but she would not kill him herself. Esme was resolved to leave him be, and she didn't want Carlisle or Edward to end the man's life either. Somehow, she felt, if she killed him, it would make her like _him_.

Ending her former husband's life would seem to require a kind of ruthlessness that she couldn't tolerate in herself, and Carlisle at least understood that perfectly. She knew he hated Charles Evanson, that he wished he'd never been born, but she also knew that Carlisle believed, as she did, that it wasn't their place to end his life. Edward was inevitably frustrated by their determination in this matter, because he saw it as naïve, proof of their belief in a God that was merciful. Since becoming an immortal, Edward had had little faith to spare for a merciful God—a vengeful God was all he believed that vampires, as well as humans like Charles, could rely on.

Esme tried again to force herself back into the present. Looking up at Carlisle, she found that he too was deep in contemplation, of what she didn't know.

"Carlisle?" she said softly, "you're putting a lot of thought into something."

He chuckled. "Did it look that way? Really, I was just thinking about how you look just now. Have I already told you how much I like that dress?"

"You may have mentioned it once or twice," Esme said, quietly thrilled with the compliment. As she kissed him on the cheek, his scent flooded her nose and mouth, and suddenly she had a wild urge to ask him to pull over, to crawl into his lap and kiss him until they—what, exactly, was she hoping for? She knew what the act of love had been like with Charles, so why was she half-mad with longing to try it with Carlisle? A sudden surge of hope, of…_desire_ really, accompanied the thought that maybe it was really going to be as different as she imagined. Her body was telling her, every time she touched him, that it would be better than tolerable to consummate her marriage to Carlisle: it would be incredible.

"It's getting dark," Esme said, forcing herself to say something rational. "Are we almost there?"

"Nearly," he said, and Esme only barely stopped herself from groaning with impatience.

A few miles more of driving through dark forest and they'd arrived at a large house. Esme smiled as soon as she saw it—it was two stories, a bit old, but full of potential, the roof and foundation perfectly intact, and in a wonderful location: too far from humans for hunting to be dangerous, but close enough to a small town that things like books and clothing would be easy enough to come by.

"It's a bit…rustic," Carlisle said, obviously worried by her silence. "But we won't be disturbed, and the hunting around here is—"

She kissed him then—it was suddenly impossible to wait any longer, and to her delight, he responded with equal enthusiasm, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her into his lap, just as she'd imagined. But the car was small, and Esme realized virtually the same moment he did that they needed more space if they wanted to continue like this without damaging the vehicle. She watched as he all but leapt out of the car, opened her door, and then picked her up without preamble.

"Hey!" she laughed, surprised by the breathless quality of her voice.

"What?" he said, grinning, and Esme realized suddenly that that smile of his was really rather dazzling, especially up close. And his eyes, those were just as distracting as his mouth…

"It's tradition, Mrs. Cullen, and I'm afraid your husband is nothing if not old-fashioned."

"That suits me just fine," she whispered, pulling him close for another kiss. Though she knew that dizziness was not something that immortals were afflicted with, she still felt like her head was spinning, and it was a bit of a relief to leave walking up to Carlisle. She thought he might set her down when they reached the door, but a second later, she heard the sound of the lock being crushed, and she kissed him even harder when she heard the door open. _Alone_. They were finally alone, this was their honeymoon, and though she'd felt uneasy before, at the moment all Esme could think of was that his jacket needed to come off, now, and that his shirt should quickly follow.

The thought of seeing Carlisle with his shirt off made her pause, both with clumsiness born of impatience and some lingering anxiety, and in that moment, he eased his mouth away from hers and finally allowed her feet to touch the ground again. As soon as she was standing, albeit rather unsteadily in her estimation, he spoke.

"I'll get our bags and shut the door. Would you like to pick out a bedroom?"

Esme grinned; there was still a faint fluttering of nerves to contend with, but she realized suddenly how much she was truly looking forward to this. Slowly, she reached out and traced one side of his jaw with her fingertips, and was delighted to see him shiver at the contact.

"I'll see you in a minute then," Esme said, the low tone of her voice surprising her slightly—she didn't feel like herself, and now she didn't sound like herself anymore either. That, she had to admit, was a comforting thought: this was a very different wedding night, with a very different man for her husband this time, and she was a different person now. Before, she'd been terrified and humiliated at the thought of marriage in the physical sense. But now, with the circumstances so utterly different, her feelings about marriage were just as changed. She'd been waiting years for this night, and suddenly she felt a powerful wave of relief course through her—relief and something else, something wilder. She wanted this, and so did he, and they loved each other. There was nothing to be afraid of, and no reason to wait any longer

Esme slowly smiled to herself and stepped onto the staircase, moving slowly and looking back at him to make sure he was watching her. It was still new to her, the sensation of being desired, but she knew that she was feeling it when Carlisle's eyes followed her up the stairs. She stepped into the first room she came to and shut the door carefully behind her before pulling off her dress and removing her jewelry. Then she glanced at her reflection in the mirror above the dresser and smiled; the slip she'd worn under the dress was something she was proud of, having never had an article of clothing quite like it before. She wondered, rather gleefully, what Carlisle's reaction to it was going to be.

Just then, he knocked on the door. She laughed. "That was _much_ less than a minute, you know."

"Sorry," Carlisle said, grinning as he stepped into the room. "Well, not really. I just—" Then he froze. Esme struggled to suppress a grin—this was a very satisfying reaction. The slip was pink, very small, and not the sort of thing she ever would have dared or desired to wear while human—now however, she had someone she _wanted_ to look sexy for, and she certainly felt sexy now. Still, Carlisle's silence became a bit unnerving as the seconds passed."The last time I was shopping, I—well, I liked the color, so—" She started speaking, both pleased and a little uncertain about his silence, but in an instant, he'd crossed the room, and his arms were around her.

"Esme," he whispered simply, and she shivered at the sound that had begun in the back of his throat—it was as if he were stifling a growl, but somehow the shiver she'd felt had nothing to do with fear. She liked the sound, and she liked the way his hands were restlessly stroking her back, her hips, the way that all of him was pressed against her so closely that she could feel the firm, lean muscles of his arms moving as he touched her. _He's so…_hard_. Is that his_…? Oh. _Oh_…

"Are you very attached to…this, and if so, will you ever be able to forgive me if I accidently tear it to shreds?" Carlisle said very quietly. Esme could feel him shaking slightly, and suddenly she was too. She'd never imagined that it could feel like this, that she'd be ready to tear off his clothes and push him onto the bed and jump on top of him and—

She tried to clear her head of that particular thought, appealing though it suddenly seemed. _He's controlling himself, so I will too_, Esme promised herself firmly, though she sensed that whatever self control they were exercising now wasn't going to last long. Slowly, she un-tucked his shirt and moved her hands to touch the bare skin of his back, which was as smooth and muscular as she'd expected, but then she surprised herself by skimming her hands down lower and pulling his hips toward hers just as she moved a little against him.

He gasped, and Esme was only slightly surprised when the beginnings of a growl started in her own throat.

"I'll forgive you," Esme whispered, trying again to distract herself from thoughts of destroying his clothes by taking his bottom lip between her teeth. "Accidents happen."

"And if I do it on purpose?" Carlisle whispered, his expression almost rapt as, after a brief kiss, she began the process of removing his shirt. _I hate buttons_, Esme thought impatiently, but then the shirt was open, and it was Esme's turn to stare at him. _Oh…_she thought again. _Well_…_wow_..

The word 'perfect' didn't seem good enough for Carlisle somehow. Esme had never considered the male body in abstract terribly attractive, but Carlisle's chest looked like something modeled after a Greek statue dedicated to beauty. He was lean, but he was also more muscular than she'd expected, and suddenly she was remembering the day they'd first met, how cold his skin had felt against hers. Now he felt warm, and Esme thought she felt her own body temperature begin to rise as his arms tightened around her. Esme smiled slowly as she pressed her hands against him and began to run her fingers along the contours of his chest, his abdomen—

He caught her hands in his and pressed his lips to each of her fingers in turn before he found her mouth again. Esme sighed against him when she tasted the first brush of his tongue against hers, and then she wound her arms around his neck just as he began to run his fingers along her thighs. A pleased hum of satisfaction turned into a gasp when he suddenly pulled her feet off the ground, his hands cupping her buttocks as he moved her against him. Esme groaned and moved her hands up into his hair, desperate to have him as close as possible. His clothes, which he'd looked very dashing in that day, suddenly seemed annoying and quite unnecessary.

Since he was already supporting her, it took only a second for Esme to wrap her legs around his waist. At this, he groaned, and Esme moved her hips against his—suddenly, nothing seemed more important than relieving the delicious tension that was building somewhere beneath the pit of her stomach. The inherent grace and strength of a vampire were, Esme guessed, the only things that kept Carlisle's feet steady as he moved them quickly to the bed—he was more distracted than she'd ever seen him now, and though the bed was now inches away, he made no move to set her down. Esme realized through a growing haze of desire that he didn't want to simply jump on top of her, but he also didn't want to let go of her long enough for either of them to lay down.

She smiled against his lips before grabbing the collar of his jacket and leaning back with enough speed and force to pull him down onto her. This particular aspect of newborn strength was satisfying, to say the least. Carlisle made a noise that was something between a shocked laugh and a moan, and at that Esme decided that it was really time for his shirt and jacket to go. When those had been shredded like tissue paper, Esme moved her hands down his back and felt herself arch against him as he started to ease the chemise up her thighs. His mouth suddenly left hers, and then she felt his lips and teeth moving against her neck, tracing the scar he'd left there.

Esme bit back a shriek. She'd often touched the scar herself, had even tried to recall what it had felt like when Carlisle had bitten her, and now, to have his lips right there again…

Next he traced her collar bone, and suddenly his mouth closed over the swell of her left breast. For an instant, Esme was too shocked to move, but then she heard a low, desperate cry spill from her throat as he nipped gently at her skin, his tongue wetting the silk of the chemise and making it move against her nipple in a way that banished every coherent thought from her head. By the time he moved to her other breast, she was practically whimpering.

"Carlisle," she managed, moving a hand between them until her fingers found the front of his pants. He jerked with arousal, but rather than stopping, his mouth moved more fiercely against her now. For a moment, she held his head against her and moaned, but then she touched him again, moving her hand up and down his length until he was emitting as many sounds of delight as she was.

"_Please_," she said at last. Esme was about to send his pants to join the remains of his shirt and jacket on the floor when he gently untangled her legs from his hips and moved to stand beside the bed. Without thinking, she hissed and tried to pull him back, and he chuckled quietly, though the sound was low and guttural. Then he removed his shoes, socks, and finally the suit pants and underwear beneath them, and in a flash, Esme felt herself freeze and contemplate him with both awe and apprehension.

_All right, he's taller than Charles_, she thought frantically. _I guess I should have realized he'd be…proportional._

"Carlisle," she said breathlessly, feeling nervous but still desperate enough to wrap her arms around him when he rejoined her on the bed. "Do you think…does the next part feel as good as everything else has?"

Esme could feel the tension in his body build as he struggled not to move—her chemise was the only thing between them now.

"Esme, look at me," he said, his voice very gentle. She met his eyes then—she hadn't noticed that she'd been staring at the wall, her head turned away from his face. When she looked up and saw his golden eyes gazing into hers, she felt herself relax.

"I'm not afraid," she said honestly. "But I wondered…"

"I don't know for certain, but I think," Carlisle whispered, "that the next part feels better. But you have to tell me if something hurts, if I—"

"I will," she promised, lowering her hands to his hips as the feeling of delightful anticipation she'd felt before slowly returned.

"Then, how does this feel?" he murmured, supporting his weight on one arm as he trailed one hand between her breasts and over her stomach before stopping at the apex of her thighs.

Esme couldn't speak, but she guessed that the wild way she gasped told him exactly how it felt. Smiling radiantly, he pushed her legs apart further with his hand before easing one of his fingers inside her. Esme felt the vibration of a moan building in her throat before she registered the sound, and frantically she moved her hips forward as he added another finger, then another. Suddenly, his hand withdrew, and Esme very nearly snarled with frustration in the pause, no more than an instant, that ensued. Then his mouth replaced his hand.

Esme could feel her hands shaking as she seized his hair and pressed his mouth closer. _He was right, it _is_ better,_ she managed to think, and then a slight motion of his tongue made her shriek. Swiftly, everything around her seemed to fade: she was conscious of his scent, of the way he was touching her, of his own sounds of satisfaction in addition to her own, but all other stimuli seemed insignificant. She'd never felt anything this good, either as a human or as an immortal, and suddenly the feeling was intensifying, his teeth grazed just the right part of the sensitive nub of flesh he'd discovered, and—

She cried out then, a long, low moan that was almost a snarl, and just as the blinding wave of pleasure coursing through her began to subside, she felt him moving again, kissing his way up her body until his mouth was hovering over hers. She could feel him waiting for her, his body pressed against every inch of hers, but he didn't move, though the wild look in his eyes showed her how eager he was. The knowledge that he wanted so much for her to enjoy this, to be sure that she was ready for what came next almost made her feel like crying. She'd spent so many years hoping, wishing to be with him, that the fact that she was as dear to him as he was to her seemed almost impossible; yet somehow here they were, about to be married in every sense of the word. Now she knew why it was called "making love," and that was what this was. Smiling up at him, Esme slid her legs out from under his, wrapped them around his hips, and pressed herself against him.

They both groaned as he sank into her, and for a moment, Esme waited as Carlisle lay perfectly still, his head pressed against her shoulder. She too tried not to move, though her fingernails dug into his back reflexively. She remembered then, after having thought of it only in passing that day, that he'd never done this before, that everything she felt was just as new to him—more so really, because he had no unpleasant previous experiences to compare the ecstasy of the present to.

"Are you all right?" he whispered, turning to meet her eyes. His were an inch from hers, the same shade of gold, and now Esme began to stroke his face, his shoulders, his back and lower—

"Better," she whispered, panting slightly. "So much better than all right, Carlisle. Now, please, I need you to move, or I feel like I'm—I—"

She struggled to describe what had just happened. She'd known from hearing other women whisper about it that sex wasn't by definition unpleasant, but how could she explain what she'd felt a few minutes ago, what she felt she was right on the edge of now?

"I feel like I'm going to explode," she whispered, grateful that blushing was impossible and that he was the only person who would ever know every detail of tonight.

Much to her relief, he didn't laugh. In fact, the shaky breath he took before speaking suggested that he knew exactly what she was talking about. "I'd very much like to see that," he whispered, beginning to pull out of her. Esme was on the verge of dragging him back to her when he moved, filling her again, and as they groaned together, she understood that moving now only made things better, though she was going to make sure he didn't move too far. Within seconds, they'd synchronized their movements, and Esme was gasping, trying to stifle the louder cry that was building in her throat as his lips traced every line of her face before returning to her neck. She could feel it was close again, that moment when sublime pleasure effaced everything and made every inch of her feel so exquisite, so utterly _his_—

Then it happened, and she shrieked out his name as she came. This orgasm was more powerful than her first, but even as it happened, she was waiting for him, wanting him with her this time, and then an instant later she heard him cry out as he spilled into her. That sound alone was almost enough to make her come again—Carlisle, who was always so restrained, so perfectly in command of himself and his desires, was as completely undone as she was by their coupling, and Esme could only grin at the knowledge that after this, he was going to be as voracious as she was. Now that they knew how this felt, when and how were they ever going to find enough self-restraint to stop?

His skin against hers seemed even warmer now, and she clung to him they kissed again, gently this time, relishing the heat, real or imagined, that their exertions had generated. Shifting slightly, Esme moved until her head was resting against a pillow, though she realized, with only a trace of embarrassment, that with him on top of her like this, even the floor would have seemed comfortable.

"Carlisle," she whispered, wishing she could find the words that would do the feeling justice. "That was…I feel…that was amazing."

"Amazing," he agreed, moving away from her just long enough to slide the blankets and sheets out from underneath them and cover her. She sighed contentedly when he rejoined her under the bedding, moving to lie beside her. Already she missed the feeling of having him inside her, but the way he was rubbing her back made her think that she wouldn't have long to wait before she got to feel it again.

"We don't get cold," she pointed out playfully, wondering what the blankets were even doing here.

"No," he murmured, grinning. "When I called this morning to ask someone from town to check that this house was still standing, they must have thought that the place needed a housekeeper's touch before it was habitable. Which, in this part of Canada, would be perfectly true for humans, who _do_ need blankets."

"So why are _we_ under here?" Esme wondered, snuggling closer to him. Her curiosity was rapidly being replaced by lust more potent than she would have imagined herself capable of even a few hours ago.

"Your chemise is gone," he pointed out, his grin visible even under the blankets in the dark room. "And so are my clothes. That fact suggests to me that we need something to tear apart other than the bed, which already looks a bit shaky to me."

Esme raised her eyebrows, confused, but then she followed his gaze to several large holes in the quilts and sheets beneath them. There were matching holes in the mattress too, and Esme realized with a start that the holes matched her fingers.

"When I was…gripping the blankets," she guessed, too amazed to even feel embarrassed. Every time she thought she'd gotten used to her monstrous new strength, something like this happened, and being an immortal surprised her all over again.

"I made a few too," he whispered, and now she saw that some of the larger holes corresponded with where he'd supported himself when he'd been on top of her. Smiling now, Esme slid a hand out from under the cave of blankets they'd made and felt the bottom edge of the bed frame.

"The frame's full of cracks," she whispered, giggling despite her shock.

He chuckled too. "There are four beds in this house," he murmured, pulling her close again. "I bought this place furnished, so there are plenty of sofas too. And chairs, and tables, and desks, and—"

She covered his mouth with hers, secure in the knowledge that when they'd destroyed this bed and all its linen, there were plenty of other places where they could enjoy their honeymoon.


	2. Chapter 2

Here's chapter two of "The Honeymoon"! Sorry I didn't post this sooner (busy week and Internet complications…) Hope you enjoy, and please review if you get the chance. Thanks for reading, and look for new chapters of "Eternity" tomorrow!

**The Honeymoon**

Carlisle's POV

They talked for most of the trip, but despite his interest in their conversation (about books she'd just finished that he was eager to read, museums he'd visited that she was eager to see as soon as her newborn years were finished), Carlisle was thinking hard. She was sitting so close to him, her head actually resting on his shoulder, her arm around his waist, and he had an arm around her shoulders, and it was…heaven. But he was of two minds about what was going to happen (what he worried and what he hoped would happen) as soon as they reached their destination.

On the one hand, in Esme's previous marriage, what should have been a physical expression of love had always been an act of brutality initiated by her husband; as eagerly as she'd kissed him the night before, Carlisle worried that actually consummating their marriage would be a nightmare for her. In one night, with a few clumsy caresses on his part, could he really efface the memory of years of abuse? Would his own complete lack of experience in this area make that impossible?

Carlisle squeezed Esme's shoulder gently; he'd felt her tense, and now she relaxed slightly at his touch, which was reassuring, but also reinforced the problem at hand. He'd been trying not to think about it for some time, but now, with Edward many miles away, and his new wife silently contemplating the scenery out of the tinted window beside her, Carlisle could think about the truth that had worried him, he was a bit ashamed to admit, almost as soon as Esme had reappeared in his life: he'd never had sex with anyone before, had never really even felt an intense desire to do so until he'd met Esme. From all he'd heard during his time in Volterra, this was fairly common for most of their kind, as the lust for blood completely dwarfed, and in many cases consumed all other hungers. Even Aro, who'd been married for centuries, never spoke of or even looked at his wife as though she were anything desirable.

All in all, the 'marriages' that existed in Volterra had seemed to be more ceremonial than anything else. If those unions had begun with passion on either side, then thousands of years of marriage had culminated in a kind of wary apathy; Aro was, on the surface, kind to his wife, and she was kind to him, but Carlisle remembered the way that neither ever turned their back on the other. Aro and his siblings had jealously guarded their power, while their wives lurked quietly in the shadows, waiting for a chance to rule Volterra for themselves.

He shook his head; he didn't want to think about the Volturri or their idea of marriage today. In any case, Carlisle knew on an intellectual level what marriage called for physically, and in truth, despite his fear of hurting Esme, despite the uneasiness he felt at having no experience, he was impatient to arrive at the house they'd be residing in for the next month. Having her sitting so close certainly helped to alleviate his anxiety, to the point that there were moments when he had to struggle silently to restrain himself from pulling over and kissing her, just to see where that would take them, what it would feel like to slide his hands under her dress, and—

"Carlisle?" Esme said softly, looking up at him. "You're putting a lot of thought into something."

He chuckled. "Did it look that way? Really, I was just thinking about how you look just now. Have I already told you how much I like that dress?"

"You may have mentioned once or twice," she said, laughing as she leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. "It's getting dark," she said quietly. "Are we almost there?"

"Nearly," he said, and again the urge to stop the car and lay down with her in the back seat was almost overpowering. They rode in silence for the last few miles through a dense forest, and then all at once, the trees thinned and they were there. The house was very dark—it was too far from the nearby town to have electricity, but at least its windows were still intact, and Carlisle could see that the door was closed, not to mention still on its hinges.

"It's a bit…rustic," he said, suddenly worried what her reaction might be. "But we won't be disturbed, and the hunting around here is—"

Esme silenced him by pressing her mouth to his, and after a few moments of increasingly ardent caresses, they seemed to decide simultaneously that it was time to get out of the car before they broke something. Carlisle hurried around to the passenger side and opened Esme's door, then scooped her up in his arms and carried her toward the house.

"Hey!" she said, giggling with delighted surprise.

"What?" he said, smiling. "It's tradition, Mrs. Cullen, and I'm afraid your husband is nothing if not old-fashioned."

"That suits me just fine," Esme murmured, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him again. Carlisle stepped onto the porch, and given the choice between unlocking the door properly and holding onto Esme, he elected to hold onto her, though that meant crushing the lock and pushing the door open with his hip. Without the lock, it swung open easily, though he'd imagined kicking it open if necessary. _So far so good_, he managed to think with what remained of his mind that wasn't completely addled by love and lust. Anxiety was completely forgotten as a sudden feeling of possessive delight struck him; she was _his_, they were alone, and she was rapidly undoing the buttons of his suit jacket.

This motion reminded him momentarily of his previous uneasiness, and just then she paused, as if feeling the same uncertainty he did. Gently setting her on her feet and easing his mouth away from hers, Carlisle smiled and hoped that it wasn't obvious that he was stalling a bit now. "I'll get our bags and shut the door. Would you like to pick out a bedroom?"

Esme smiled—did she realize how seductive she could be by just trailing a hand along his jaw? "I'll see you in a minute then," she said, her voice low and sultry. Suddenly, stalling was the last thing Carlisle wanted to do, but he watched, frozen in place as she slowly moved up the stairs, looking back at him over her shoulder as if knowing quite well what the movement of fabric over her hips was doing to him. As soon as she'd opened one of the bedroom doors, Carlisle raced outside, grabbed their suitcases, and dropped them in the hall before shutting the door none too gently and leaping up the stairs after her. Then he knocked at the door of the room he'd seen her enter.

She laughed. "That was _much_ less than a minute, you know,"

"Sorry," Carlisle said, smoothing back his hair and going inside. "Well, not really. I just—" Then his jaw dropped, and for a few seconds, speaking seemed an impossible task while he managed the important charge of taking in what she was wearing, which wasn't much.

It was a thin, rose-colored slip, the same color as her lips—this was a fact he noted with a gasp that was almost a groan—and its hem stopped well above her knees, while the neckline plunged to reveal a delicious view of the top few inches of her breasts.

Now it was her turn to seem faintly embarrassed. "The last time I was shopping, I—well, I liked the color, so—"

He was across the room and holding her in a second. "Esme," he whispered, pressing his mouth against her hair to muffle another groan. He could feel himself shaking with the effort of controlling himself, but he was holding her so tightly now that he knew she could feel his arousal pressed against her thigh. Once again, Carlisle found that his instincts were proving reliable so far; even if he didn't know consciously what to do, his body seemed to have its priorities straight.

"Are you very attached to…this, and if so, will you ever be able to forgive me if I accidently tear it to shreds?" he managed in a fierce whisper. He felt her shiver against him and then she slid his hands beneath his shirt, caressing his back and then moving her fingers forward, pressing his hips closer to hers—

"I'll forgive you," she whispered, nipping at his bottom lip. "Accidents happen."

"And if I do it on purpose?" he muttered, distracted by her hands, her lips, the way her scent filled his nose and mouth—it was torture, sweet torture the way she was touching him now, swiftly unbuttoning his shirt, running her hands along the contours of his chest before moving down towards his stomach and lower—

He seized her hands and kissed her fingers frantically before returning to her mouth, his tongue moving against her lips and his hands sliding down to stroke her thighs. Slowly, hoping he was making her feel half as desperate as he did, he moved his hands upward until he was cupping her buttocks, pressing her against him. Esme groaned and opened her mouth, her tongue pressing furiously against his and her hands fisting in his hair as she struggled to pull him closer.

Together, they staggered toward the bed—he'd lifted her a few inches off the ground,

moving her against him, and then she wrapped her legs around his waist. For an instant, Carlisle was certain that he was going to fall, or black out, or do something else made impossible by immortal strength, but then mercifully, he felt that they'd reached the mattress, and he prepared to set her down. His wife, he immediately found, had other plans: she simply leaned back sharply and pulled him down on top of her by the collar of his shirt, which Carlisle felt her tear off him along with his jacket before he could lift his arms to remove them.

Slowing down was beginning to seem impossible, but Carlisle forced himself to focus—he _had_ to make sure he didn't hurt her, had to reign in his own desire for a little while longer to make sure that she enjoyed every minute of tonight. Nearly dizzy with lust but determined, he pushed up the hem of her chemise with aching slowness, delaying what he knew to be the inevitable moment when he would tear the silk slip from her body and kiss every inch of her. Pulling away from her mouth now, he slid he teeth along her neck, the scar he'd made, then against her collar bone before moving down to her breasts.

At the first touch of his lips, she froze, but then she cried out and arched against his mouth when he began to suck at her skin, the thin layer of fabric rubbing against her nipples making her writhe beneath him, the smell of her skin and the feel of the silk against his tongue making his own breathing quicken.

"Carlisle," she groaned, sliding a hand between their bodies and caressing him until he moaned. "_Please_."

Carlisle reluctantly moved away from her hand. She snarled softly in protest, which would have made him laugh, ordinarily, but now he needed to stand up for a moment; he was tired of having his remaining clothing between them. Shoes, socks and suit pants were gone in an instant, and then he was pressed against her, her chemise the only barrier left. Then he noticed how still she was, and he realized that she'd tensed; her previous knowledge of what came next certainly hadn't led her to look forward to this. _Don't move,_ he ordered himself. _Wait for her to relax._

"Carlisle?" she whispered, her voice almost shy, despite the fact or maybe because of the intimacy they'd shared already. "Do you think…does the next part feel as good as everything else has?"

It was almost impossible not to move in this position, but her question made it even harder. She had so many bad memories, so many fears that he wished he could free her from, and sometimes all he could think to do for her was to wrap his arms around her and hold her until she wasn't afraid anymore. But he sensed somehow that in this situation, that wouldn't work—physical contact wasn't what she needed, since it would be harder to get closer to her than he already was—but she wasn't looking at him, she was staring off into space, her muscles taught with fear at what she was remembering and wishing she could forget.

"Esme, look at me," he whispered, willing her to look at him. If she didn't, he'd stop, he knew he could, though it was the last thing in the world he wanted. But then she looked up at him, and immediately, the tension he'd felt a moment ago seemed to leave her body.

"I'm not afraid," she said, and he could see that she wasn't—it hadn't been him, but the memory of another night like this that had made her freeze, momentarily terrified. "But I wondered…"

"I don't know for certain, but I think that the next part feels better. But you have to tell me if something hurts, if I—" _If I move too fast, if I completely lose control of myself_, he thought nervously.

"I will," she whispered, smiling up at him. It always stunned him to see her look at him like that, like he was as desirable to her as she was to him. As if she didn't deserve _him_—it was more wonderful and more impossible than anything he ever could have imagined.

"Then, how does this feel?" he whispered, slipping his hands beneath her slip and massaging her thighs. He knew what he wanted—the whole lower half of his body seemed to ache with the desire to thrust into her in one quick movement, but he forced himself to wait. He had to know that she wanted this as much as he did, had to replace the fear she'd felt a moment ago with the same intense lust that was coursing through him now. Very slowly, he slid a hand between her legs.

Esme gasped and pressed herself against his fingers. He chuckled and moved down to kiss her hipbone as he eased a single finger inside her. She moaned and bucked her hips forward, so he added another finger, then another, and then, because his mouth was watering and he was suddenly ravenous in a way that had nothing to do with the usual thirst for blood, he removed his hand and slipped his tongue inside her.

He remembered then that she was still a newborn, and thus stronger than he was, and though he'd worried for a split second how she would react to this (never mind his own surprise at wanting so much to do it), he was reassured almost instantly when he felt her hands grip his hair and press him closer. He groaned quietly—the scent of the damp curls between her legs, the taste of the warm liquid that was beginning to pool there, and her skin alone, the smooth softness of her flesh and the way it felt against his teeth, his lips—

She cried out then, a long, low moan that was almost a snarl, and then he couldn't wait any longer. Kissing his way up her body, he stopped only when he lowered himself onto her. Then he pressed himself against her and waited to see how she would react. To his relief, Esme didn't tense, she didn't hesitate, she simply moved her legs out from under his and wrapped them around his hips, and then he slid inside her.

They both groaned as he pushed all the way into her, and for a moment, Carlisle lay perfectly still, his head pressed against her shoulder, trying not to move, trying to adjust to the utter newness of this sensation, to say nothing of the pleasure suddenly coursing through him. He was buried in her, and he realized in a kind of daze that he would be perfectly happy to never move again.

"Are you all right?" he whispered, turning to meet her eyes. They were an inch from his, the same shade of gold, and now her hands were stroking his face, his shoulders, his back—

"Better," she whispered, panting slightly. "So much better than all right, Carlisle. Now, please, I need you to move, or I feel like I'm—I—"

He thought his eyes must have rolled back into his head when she squeezed him very gently, her inner muscles struggling to take him in even deeper. "I'm about to explode again," she said, her voice barely audible.

"I'd very much like to see that," he whispered, easing out before very slowly thrusting into her again. They both groaned at the tremors of delight that this friction created, and soon they'd settled into a rhythm, their hips crashing together in thrusts that Carlisle was vaguely aware were shaking the bed. Though he knew breathing was unnecessary, he felt himself gasping for air, drowning in her scent as his mouth careened from her lips to her eyelids, her temples, her chin, and then down to her neck. He nipped at the skin there, his hips still moving in time with hers, faster every second, and now he felt that he was about to scream, that as good as this felt, they were on the edge of something better, the thing he was aching so badly for—

Her climax came just a moment before his—for an instant, she was perfectly still, tense and waiting, and then she screamed his name and he felt her shudders surrounding him, her nails digging into his back as she thrust against him one more time, and then he was gone, every conscious thought obliterated by the sudden ecstasy that exploded in every nerve ending in his body. He felt himself emptying into her, and as he tried and failed to muffle his own cry against the pillow beneath her head, he heard a sound issue from his throat that was something between a guttural snarl and a shout of triumph.

She was shaking, her hips moving more slowly now, and then she was kissing him again, her tongue moving lazily against his as tiny aftershocks coursed through them. At last, the tension seemed to ease slightly. She lay back against the pillow and smiled up at him.

"Carlisle," she murmured, her tone almost rapt. "That was…I feel…that was amazing."

"Amazing," he whispered, moving to lie beside her after he'd pulled the bedding out from under them. He hadn't registered the fact before, but she was naked now—he really had destroyed the chemise unconsciously, and now the shreds surrounded them, as did what Carlisle now recognized as the intoxicating scent of sex, which mixed her smell with his until there was no distinguishing between the two. Absently, he began to slide his hands up and down her back. He wanted to do that again, _now_, but he was determined not to push her—they'd come so far already, so much farther than he could have imagined just a few days before, and just because she was happy now didn't give him carte blanche to throw himself at her again five minutes later. At least, that was what he tried to tell himself—it was a reasonable, though very undesirable conclusion.

"We don't get cold," she said, her voice amused as she nodded at the blankets he'd covered them with.

"No," he agreed, guessing what she meant. "When I called this morning to ask someone from town to check that this house was still standing, they must have thought that the place needed a housekeeper's touch before it was habitable. Which, in this part of Canada, would be perfectly true for humans, who _do_ need blankets."

"So why are we under here?" Esme asked, burrowing close to him. Carlisle swallowed hard—_all right, so keeping my hands to myself isn't going to be a viable option for much longer…_

"Your chemise is gone," he blurted out, smiling in spite of himself when he told the truth—there was no delicate way to say, 'darling, we're having such a wonderful wedding night so far that I think our bed is about to collapse.' He was a bit surprised by his own lack of restraint, though the same trait in Esme suddenly seemed unbearably arousing. "And so are my clothes. That fact suggests to me that we need something to tear apart other than the bed, which looks a bit shaky to me."

Esme looked puzzled for a moment, but then she began to examine the bedding surrounding them: every blanket and sheet seemed to be dotted with holes, most of them finger-sized.

"When I was…gripping the blankets," she said, her voice incredulous.

"I made a few too," he said, hoping that, like him, she was more delighted than embarrassed by the result of their exertions. He was relieved of uneasiness again when Esme grinned and moved to examine the frame of their bed.

"The frame's full of cracks," she announced, managing to look both amused and stunned as she laughed about her discovery.

Carlisle felt himself laughing too, even as he made a quick calculation regarding furniture. "There are four beds in this house," he said, embracing her as he spoke—he was suddenly unable to resist the urge to wrap his arms around her any longer. "I bought this place furnished, so there are plenty of sofas too. And chairs, and tables, and desks, and—"

He stopped speaking abruptly when she slid her arms around his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers for a kiss that made him feel more than ready to consummate their union again. He'd been so happy, happier than he'd ever been, when'd she agreed to marry him, but somehow he seemed to feel even more delighted with every hour that she was his wife. Before rational thought was abandoned again, Carlisle had time to reflect on the wonderful fact that this was only the first night of what he realized now was going to be a very long and very enjoyable honeymoon.


	3. Coda

Hi everyone! Since I'm in the process of moving (I'm at my uncle's house tonight, because I can't move into my new place until tomorrow), I haven't had time to write my usual updates for "Eternity" this week. In lieu of that, I have a short treat for you. I wrote this awhile ago, after I finished "The Honeymoon" and found myself wishing that I could continue it. So who knows; maybe I'll do more updates like this from time to time in the future; we'll see…:)

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer is the author of "Twilight," and I only borrow Carlisle and Esme and the rest of her characters for fun. :)

The Honeymoon: Coda

It had been a long day—scratch that, it had been almost forty-eight hours since Carlisle had left the hospital. There was a nasty virus going around, and since four nurses and two doctors had called in sick that night, he'd be needed for two surgeries before this shift was over. He and Esme had only been married for a few weeks, and now, just days after returning from their honeymoon, he was missing her terribly. He'd called that morning to ask her how she was, and to wish Edward a good day at school, but now he was thinking of calling again—he'd been given just an hour to take a break before he'd need to go on rounds again, and at least hearing from Edward and Esme would get him through the rest of the night…

Carlisle was crossing the lobby to use the telephone behind the nurse's station when he saw someone slip in through the double doors. It was late, and he was surprised to see anyone at all, but he was really shocked when he saw that it was Esme. The nurse's station was momentarily deserted, so Carlisle was able to meet Esme halfway across the lobby, moving so quickly that any human watching would have only seen a blur.

"Esme?" he said, delighted to see her, but worried too—why was she taking the risk of coming here?

Esme was carefully holding her breath, so she didn't speak, but she glanced around the lobby, and Carlisle guessed that she was looking for a more private place where they could talk.

"Come on," Carlisle said quietly, taking her hand and leading her forward. "There's a supply room just around the corner. And incidentally, surgeries don't happen in this part of the building, so it might be safe for you to breathe. If it bothers you though, we can go outside."

Esme shook her head quickly and then, looking around the deserted lobby, she exhaled and then cautiously inhaled. A look of discomfort crossed her face, but then she smiled. Over the past few weeks, she had begun to venture closer and closer to humans, either by taking walks in town, or simply running near human houses at night, always with Carlisle or Edward or both of them there to watch her. It appeared that her practice at exercising self control was paying off.

"You're right. It smells like humans, but I can bear it."

"Here," Carlisle said, pulling open the door to the supply room. Esme stepped inside and turned to face him as he closed the door.

"Are you all right?" he whispered gently. Without a word, Esme reached behind his back, locked the door, and then she shoved him against the nearest wall. Startled, Carlisle caught her in his arms as she jumped up, wrapping her legs around his waist, and began kissing him furiously. Carlisle's confusion only lasted an instant, and then his mouth was open, his tongue tasting and moving against hers, and he heard her groan when he slid his hands into her hair and held her face even more firmly to his. Somehow, she'd already unbuttoned his shirt, and though he hadn't heard any buttons fall, he quickly removed his belt and pants for fear that she might not be so careful with his clothing in another moment or two. Already, she'd driven him to the point where he'd hiked her skirt up well past her knees and all but shredded her underclothes.

Esme kicked off the tattered remains of her underthings and ground her body against his, moaning into his mouth, and with a strangled cry, Carlisle turned around, pinning Esme against the wall as he entered her. They thrust against each other frantically, and though Carlisle knew he should slow down—he always worried about hurting her when they came together this desperately—when he tried, she simply tightened her hold on him, her legs and arms locking behind his back, and when she trailed kisses down his neck and chest, he simply gave up on trying to move slowly and met her thrust for thrust. In just a few minutes, she was crying out in ecstasy, and Carlisle buried his face in her neck, kissing the place he'd bitten her a year before just as he felt himself explode. Judging by the way Esme was giggling, his own shout of delight hadn't been especially quiet.

"Hi, by the way," she whispered, and they both laughed as Carlisle stood there in the darkness, still supporting them both, their bodies still tingling with pleasure. Carlisle glanced at the wall behind Esme, noting the small cracks in the bricks with a sigh.

"Your head doesn't hurt, does it?" he asked uncertainly.

Esme laughed, then kissed and tickled him until he laughed too.

"No," she said, turning around and examining the wall. "Do you think anyone will notice that?"

"Probably not," Carlisle said, suddenly feeling better than he had in days. "Thank you for coming to see me."

Esme shrugged. "In the morning, we're both going to be rather horrified that I took such a big risk, and Edward's already faintly disgusted with me…but then again, he was disgusted to have me at home, thinking about what I wanted to do to you when you got home."

"Well, I've got forty minutes until my break is over," Carlisle said, grinning at her. "What do you want to do to me?"

Esme smiled, and then she pushed him down onto the floor, pulled off her sweater, his shirt and coat, and showed him. As she did, Carlisle realized that though their honeymoon was technically over, being with Esme like this was always going to be amazing. They had eternity to spend together, and in that sense, Carlisle knew that the rest of his life was going to be better than any honeymoon.


End file.
